


Sometimes, I Wish To Fall

by MakerOfAnarchy



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 03:43:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MakerOfAnarchy/pseuds/MakerOfAnarchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a coffee shop, on a hot, humid day, Kurt finds him. That's how it starts, and it does not end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes, I Wish To Fall

**Author's Note:**

> mistakes are mine, and i'm sorry for formatting issues.

Kurt Hummel was a rich man.

He had all of the finer things and could get whatever he wanted in a heartbeat. He said what he felt and if people did not like what he was feeling he told them that was not their job. Opinions are not something Kurt Hummel considered, unless they were his own.

He was not always a rich man. Kurt had fought tooth and nail to get where he was and he had earned everything he had.

Kurt grew up in small town Lima, Ohio where he joined his Glee club and got shit for it every year. He had a homophobic, closeted bully that tormented and assaulted him on daily bases. Kurt tried not to think about the nature of those assaults. They were suppressed memories, pushed so far back into the recesses of his mind he forgot sometimes. And that was the point.

But Kurt was not one to get dragged down and when he graduated he had a National Show Choir Championship and a 4.0 GPA under his belt, and he got the hell out of Lima, Ohio. He had nothing for him there, his future was in New York. His mother had died when he was eight, his father when he was sixteen. It was at his father's funeral that he decided that there was no way Lima would hold him back. He had sold their partial ownership of a mechanic shop when he inherited it, ignoring his conscience and moved in with his eccentric best friend Rachel Berry.

Sure, he tried to pursue the Broadway road, along with Rachel, but, unlike Rachel, he did not stick to it. Rachel was doing good. She was working Wicked at the Gershwin Theater and they spoke often.

When he realized Broadway was not the road for him he had immediately began searching for internships in fashion.

Kurt was too ambitious, however, to simply internship and a friend he'd made at Vogue set him up with a chance to showcase a collection of his at a new designers fashion show during Fashion Week. His line had been the favorite and people began commissioning him for his designs and then he had a store and then a representative from PVH had approached him and here he was.

Kurt had to say, he was pretty damn proud to be where he was. He only had stores in the New York and Los Angeles areas, but people were proud to order online and get their fix  
that way. And he was twenty six years old. Not very many people could say they'd had his success. People often scorned him for his young age and claimed that he couldn't possibly know enough about fashion or business without a degree, but Kurt Hummel liked to surprise people.

So, if he got a little bitchy, rude or annoying, who cares? He had earned the right to say whatever he wanted, and he damn well would.

But he was so, so lonely. Kurt had friends. They were all supportive and wonderful and the ones that he lost due to his hard exterior he gave up on.

Kurt had boyfriends, too, of course. But he had never fallen in love and he hated to admit it, but he really wanted to.

Kurt had always been a romantic, one to applaud the hero as he saves the heroine from an untimely death or where, against all odds, the couple stays together. He wanted that, but no  
one ever gave it to him.

So he waited.

Blaine Anderson was not a rich man. Well, technically, he was, but not really.

He had a bank account, one stuffed to the brim from money that his father gave him every month just so he didn't have to see his face.

Blaine Anderson was not the favorite son. When he had told his family he was gay, his father had shut down, barely ever looking him in the eye.

When he was beaten after a Sadie Hawkins dance and sent to the hospital for an extended amount of time and his father realized he would actually have to speak to his son, he had said, "This is just what happens. Learn to protect yourself and your choices."

Blaine then transferred to Dalton Academy under his mothers insistence and took up boxing. He became cold – a result of a quietly hostile household and detached parents and from living in the shadow of the older sibling.

When he turned eighteen and got his first tattoo and announced that he was going to New York to pursue a music career and fuck you very much father, his dad had put him on a plane and said goodbye. Blaine is lucky to have the bank account, he supposed. If it was up to his father he would just be struggling on the streets.

And he was technically. When he had graduated from NYU, top of his class, his father had said to him, "Alright, boy. Now I want to see you do something with this degree of yours. You have two years before I cut your ungrateful ass off and never speak to you again."

Now, he had three tattoos, a lip piercing and 0 gauges that were getting increasingly smaller in point, charm for days and a degree under his belt but having done nothing with it, not really. He was still trying to prove to his own fucking father that he would be someone, that he was special and had what it takes. He played in some coffee shops or bars or on the street, hoping one day they would see his talent and sweep him into the world of fame, and he could show his father how good he had done without his help.

He auditioned and put his name out there anyway he could.

And yeah, Blaine was lonely, but he didn't have time to think about that. He only had a year left, one more year to prove that he was not a disgrace, no matter what his father said.

—

"Please tell me this is a joke."

Kurt Hummel stared down at the cowering staff. He could practically feel Santana's smirk from behind him and he spun around, glaring at her with practiced hatred.

Even Santana Lopez, Assistant Editor in Chief and straight up bitch backed down from the heated stare of Kurt Hummel.

"It's almost fall, people. People are expecting a new line, because it's fall – primetime for fashion."

They stared blankly at him and he growled, picking up his papers. "Eight o' clock, tomorrow, new ideas and hopefully a new fucking attitude. Goodbye."

The room got up and hurried to scurry out. Kurt could practically see the smoke from their feet as they got out of the room as fast as possible.  
He sighed, laying his head in his hand.

"Someone added extra demon to their bitch flakes this morning, huh?"

Kurt groaned at Santana's words, not picking his head up. "Chandler stopped by last night."

Immediately, Santana sobered up, laying a hand on his back. "You sure you don't want me to show that douche a little Lima Heights hospitality?"

Kurt nearly smiled. If one person always had his back, it was Santana Lopez.

"If he doesn't pick up on the fact that I'm no longer interested soon I might have to take you up on that offer," Kurt groaned, throwing his head back and pushing his hand into his coiffed hair.

Santana looked at him for a moment before patting his back softly. "Well, listen, Porcelain. Day one of the fall shoot is happening today, at that old warehouse in the Bronx. I know it's not your job or something you would want to do, but come check it out. You're the only one who knows what theyre doing sometimes…" Santana scoffed, "Except for me of course."

Kurt smiled at her light, teasing tone. "Thanks, 'Tans, but I can't. I have a lot of work to do today."

"Whatever you say," she picked up her bag and began heading for the door, "just know that it's an option for if you wanna clear your head…"

Kurt smiled, waving at her. Five years and Santana was still there for him.

His phone rang from in his satchel pocket and he picked it up, groaning as he saw who it was from.

He didn't open the text, deleting it straight away.

Kurt put the phone away, grabbing his satchel and running out the door to catch up with Santana. She smirked at him but he ignored it.

He really did have a lot of work to do, but everyone needed a break.

—-

"Mr. Hummel, what are you doing here?!"

Kurt smirked at the director, dropping his coat into the man's hands.

"I'm here to supervise, since apparently no one but me knows what they're doing," Kurt ignored Santana's cough, instead taking off his sunglasses and looking around the warehouse.

There were racks and racks off clothes on one wall, and a line of makeup stations along the other. In the middle was a white screen, with bright lights and cameras aimed at it. It was hustle and bustle as the models began getting their hair and makeup done.

And Kurt suddenly felt in his element. It was a long, tiring process. He had to approve the outfits, the makeup, the hair, the concept. An hour later, the first shot was ready to be taken. Kurt watched the three models be lined up, all dressed the fall colors of his line (vibrant pinks, ultramarine blue, colors that would hurt your eyes but force you to keep looking).

It was then, Kurt realized that he was exhausted, but he couldn't be tired. There was at least another three hours of this and Kurt intended to stay until the end. He was not one to half-ass things.

"Leslie, do we have any coffee?" Kurt asked, looking to the woman standing next to him. Leslie, Kurt's assistant, stepped forward "Well, someone was supposed to be gone to get it, but no one has returned. I can send someone else…?"

Kurt considered her for a moment, before shaking his head. "No, I will go myself. I need the fresh air."

Kurt had seen the small coffee shop a few blocks down and he grabbed his coat and wallet, checking to make sure he had the company card before setting off.

The walk to the shop was appropriately short and Kurt did not allow his thoughts to get to him as they usually tried. He just enjoyed the last dregs of the New York summer air, knowing it was about to get colder and colder.

Kurt stood in line, keeping his head down and sunglasses high on his face. He was easily recognizable and he did not enjoy getting mauled by worshipping teenage girls who obviously didn't take his advice or expertise into actual consideration.

The lights suddenly dimmed and Kurt looked up, wondering what was going on. It was then Kurt noticed the small, small staged angled to the back of the room, all of the lights now aimed at it. Kurt had to take a minute to realize what was happening and that the young man behind the microphone was not a hallucination of any type. He was rough-looking and gave off a heavy, detached aura but his golden brown eyes held the most sincere gaze Kurt had ever seen.

Kurt took in the lip ring that the pink tongue continually played with, and the gauges that Kurt usually found repulsing. And he still did, but if Kurt had a choice for this man it would have been those. Kurt could see the vague printing of black ink on his defined bicep, unreadable from this distance.

And then he spoke.

"Hi - my name is Blaine. I play music and hope everyone else enjoys how I sing and what I do as much as I do," Blaine stopped, strumming and tuning his guitar a little as he cleared his throat. "So, please, enjoy."

And he began to play, strumming the chords to some song Kurt had a vague memory of but couldn't recall.

Kurt was being called. "Sir, sir! Are you ready to order?" Kurt shook his head, the chords still reverberating in his head.

He took out his phone, reading through the list of orders Leslie had texted him.

Blaine began to sing and Kurt tried hard to focus on swiping the company card, only to end up swiping it too slowly and having to do it again.

"I walked across, an empty land…"

The song was old, so old, and Kurt wondered why this song was ever even on the boys mind but…shit. His voice was heavenly.

Kurt couldn't resist, he waved the barista closer as she gathered his receipt and circled his total amount. "Excuse me, but…"

"Who's the hot guitarist?" The female barista smirked handing him his receipt. She leaned against the counter and Kurt mimicked her pose, maintaining distance. Kurt nodded, if slightly bashful at getting caught.

"Hell if I know," she chuckled. "His name is Blaine Anderson and he plays here every Tuesday and Thursday. Our boss says maybe more if he continues to attract good customers like," she jerked her chin toward a group of college girls who had completely forgone their coffee in favor of staring wide eyed at Blaine as he sang, "that. Though it is surprising they haven't gotten the idea yet. I have seen a few give him their numbers after his set and every time he just laughs — loudly. Beautifully. Wonderful — and shakes his head. It is a shame their gaydar is so broken."

Kurt laughs, turning his head back to stare at Blaine as he seemingly lost himself in music.

"So, you gonna make a move Kurt Hummel?" His head swung around to stare incredulously at the girl who just smiled brightly and shook her head, laughing very quietly.

"Don't — "

" — say anything, I know," she smiled, handing him his orders. "So, are you?"

Kurt smirked, checking the time on his phone, noticing he had to get back. "Not quite," he glanced at her nametag, "Janis. But you'll be seeing me." He winked at her before leaving.

Kurt did not see the eyes burning into his back, nor did he see the stutter of fingertips on the strings of a worn guitar. But he felt it, and all he could do was keep walking, head held high.

—


End file.
